


Can't Help Falling in Love with You

by Apherion



Series: Spideypool Songfics [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age of Consent, Alternate Universe, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Present Tense, Songfic, Suicide, Superfamily (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apherion/pseuds/Apherion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wise men say only fools rush in... But I can't help falling in love with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Help Falling in Love with You

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first of a series of songfics I'm going to post. All will be titled for the song that inspires the fic, like this one. This is inspired by Ingrid Michaelson's version of the song, and I highly recommend a listen to it while you read.

He’s sixteen now, and his dads are throwing him a party. Really, it’s more Dad than Pop, but Peter doesn’t care. His friends are there, his aunts and uncles. Everyone that’s really important. He has Gwen under one arm and Harry under the other, and all three are laughing at a joke Dad was telling. Pop blushes because it’s at his expense.

The presents are brought out first. Aunt Natasha gives him a few of her shock discs and a small knife, Uncle Clint a leather bracelet that had an arrow on it, Uncle Bruce gives him much needed wheels for his skateboard, and his dads a camera—a really good one—and the schematics Dad made dictating where the dark room would be in the house. Gwen and Harry’s gifts are last because they complement his dads’. Gwen gives him film, and Harry gives him two big albums.

He thanks everyone, already loading film into the camera to start taking pictures of everyone. Gwen strong arms Harry into the photo, which he begrudgingly smiles while she holds up a V. He gets a picture of the kiss Pop lays on Dad’s cheek—this time he’s blushing. Natasha gives him a look and a knowing smirk through his lens, and he lowers the camera just in time for Gwen to snatch it and take his picture. He’s almost blind by the time the cake comes out because of the flashes of light.

Sixteen candles are blown out, and everyone takes a piece of cake outside into the cold, December air. Fireworks specially made for today go off, and Peter stares in wonder with everyone else.

He excuses himself after a while, wanting to take a moment to himself. He goes to his room and steps out onto the balcony, and climbs onto the roof. He has a little photograph of his parents—his biological mom and dad—holding him when he was a baby. He doesn’t remember them; he just knows that they died after he was born. He tells them he’s sixteen now, and he’s thinking about being a journalist…maybe a scientist.

There’s a loud thump behind him, and he jumps, startled. He nearly unbalances himself, but the figure grabs his shirt and pulls him back. Peter’s heart’s racing as he stumbles into the standing position this masked man put him in.

“What are you, crazy?” He asks, breathless and taken aback by this person landing on his house.

“Crazy? Maybe—no, we just know everything—people would argue that with you. Yeah, maybe,” the man replies rapidly, as if he was talking to himself to answer Peter’s question. He stares at him, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Who the hell is this guy?

“Why’re you…why’re you on my roof?”

“Why’re you on your roof?” He counters, his boots thudding against the shingles. Peter opens his mouth to respond but closes it. “I’m on a roof—didn’t know it was yours, didn’t know you’d be on it, either. Just heard something like bombs—”

“Those weren’t bombs, they were fireworks.” Yeah, this guy is ready for the looney bin.

“Oh! See, I told you it wasn’t anything—yeah, but you’re usually wrong—when am I wrong?”

“Uh…hello?” Peter interjects, his concern mounting with the man’s speech getting crazier by the minute. The man stops arguing with himself, and asks,

“Why were there fireworks? It’s not New Year’s yet is it—or have I been gone that long? No…it’s not even Christmas—I _never_ miss Christmas.” Peter laughs and covers it with a cough. Is he drunk, high, a little of both? He doesn’t know, but it is sort of funny, in a really weird way.

“It’s my birthday,” he answers easily enough. He isn’t sure the expression the man is making, but he does respond.

“So that brings us back to the ‘why’re you on your roof’ question, doesn’t it?” Peter scuffs his shoes against the sandpaper-esque surface, making a face.

“I was adopted—”

“And they just told you.”

“No! I’ve known for forever—I just…it’s something I do.” He blushes, feeling self-conscious about his tradition now. The masked man laughs.

“Oh baby boy, you’re too cute.”

There’s a commotion down in the backyard, and Peter steadies himself, hearing someone thundering upstairs. Dad is glaring up at him, or so he thinks until he speaks.

“Get out of here, Wilson. This is a private party.” Peter can hear the ‘fuck off’ in his voice. Pop and the rest of the group are in tow, but Peter’s eyes are focused on ‘Wilson’ and his dad.

“Aw, and it was just about to liven up a little, too,” he quipped. “You’re stiff in your old age, Stark.”

“Yeah, and you don’t act yours.”

“I take that as a compliment.” The man even went so far as to salute down to Dad. Peter could see him reddening, and he bit his lip so not to laugh.

“Just leave.”

“Hold on, I didn’t even get to say ‘happy birthday’.” Peter’s attention turns back to ‘Wilson’ just in time to feel masked lips pressing against his. “Happy birthday, baby boy,” he whispers giddily.

“T-thanks,” he stammers back. There’s an outcry on the balcony, but it doesn’t matter. The man is gone. Stunned, Peter dazedly makes his way back down into the house, still holding the picture of his mom and dad.

Suddenly, it feels like the party’s over.

 

Peter asks about that man, and the only one he can get to tell him is Aunt Natasha—though she doesn’t much care for him. In fact, none of them do. “Leave it alone, Peter,” she advises. “What about your blonde friend, Gwen? She seems liked someone you’d get along with,” she attempts suggesting, but Harry and him had agreed a long time ago that they wouldn’t date Gwen. She is their friend, and their friendship is more important.

“I wasn’t even thinking that, Natasha,” he denies easily enough. She, however, doesn’t buy it, and tells him so with that look she has.

“You’ll be in over your head, kid.”

 

The next time he sees him, he’s seventeen and Spider-Man.

It makes him laugh; too, because the man doesn’t know he kissed him and he refuses to shut up about how his ass looks in the suit he wore. He doesn’t know him, and probably won’t ever, but he does wonder what would happen if they did get to know each other. He even calls him Wade, feeling up there with the big heroes, like his dads.

“C’mon Spidey, just one touch and I swear I’ll leave you alone. Just let me get a handful!”

Peter doesn’t let him, though. He likes their bantering too much to want it to end, even though he plays it close to the vest—as if he doesn’t like it at all.

 

Their team-ups are casual, noncommittal. When they’re working together, Peter tries to keep Wade from killing, but it’s a tall order to change the habit of someone that’s been doing this line of work for a long time. And sometimes, after they’re finished, Peter forgets to go home immediately. They usually end up sitting on a roof talking about random things or about major things while Wade gorges on Taco Bell (more like Taco Hell).

“Really—you can’t expect me to be good all the time. They’re bad guys. What’s the big deal if I just cut out the middle man and bang!—head shot?” The Merc with the Mouth pretends to shoot one of the glocks in his hands.

“Does a fair trial ring a bell?” He retorts dryly.

“It is a fair trial! I’m a peer—right? Right.”

“You’re not a judge though.”

“I’m an officiator.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s not?”

“No.”

“Damn. Chimichanga?”

 

The sudden deluge has both spider and mercenary running for cover inside an abandoned building.

“It didn’t look like it was going to rain.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t look like I was about to lose an arm back there. Not that I couldn’t have gone back and reattached it or anything—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers. Peter’s just recovering from a cold and his dads will kill him if he catches another one while he’s been out patrolling with Wade.

“Did Spider-Man just drop an f-bomb?” Wade’s looking at him now with rapt attention, and Peter cheeks heat and his stomach clenches nervously.

“Y-yeah…I did, so what?”

“Nothing, I just want to hear you say it again.”

He likes to think they don’t know he’s been working with him, but he knows better. It’s only because they catch a lot of bad guys (with minimal death counts) that his dads even let it continue. He’s glad, though. He doesn’t get to hang out with Wade outside of ‘hero work’. His dads won’t allow it. They probably have good reason, but Peter doesn’t see it.

Even as his mask is rolled up to his nose and Wade pins him against the wall, he doesn’t see it.

He moans into the kiss, and he can feel Wade’s smirk against his mouth as their tongues tangle in a wet mass. He feels his larger hands pulling him into his body, grinding their hips together. Peter’s lightheaded, too much, too fast, and white tinges at the edges of his vision.

“Spidey?” He blinks, his fingers clutching at the wet suit on Wade’s body.

“I-I’m fine, really,” he says, feeling embarrassed.

“You totally fainted.”

“I-I…” He is sure that the merc can see his exposed cheeks darken further. Wade scratches lightly under his chin, drawing him closer without a single word to beckon him.

“You’re cute, baby boy,” he whispers, and Peter’s heart thumps sporadically against his chest. Does…does he know who I am? His lips quiver some as Wade kisses him again, slower, deeper. Lips part, tongues meet, and his heart is beating too fast for him to think over the pounding in his ears. He moans loudly when Wade’s hips rock against his, the friction making him painfully aware how hard he is.

He doesn’t remember agreeing to Wade getting him off, but there’s a hand inside his clothes, revealing his cock before hot flesh rubs and catches against his skin. He hisses, but the movements become smoother, the touch slickening as precum drips from Peter’s cock. Teeth find his neck, and in tandem with the hand moving over both their erections, Peter’s knees buckle, coming with a choked cry.

“That was fast,” Deadpool comments, milking his orgasm and making Peter’s toes curl as the waves even out. Wade continues to stroke himself a few more times before he lets himself finish. Peter is horrified at himself. “You really are cute.”

“I-I’m not,” he breathes, but his words are almost too soft for the merc to hear. Wade chuckles and helps with the dressing.

“The rain’s letting up,” he whispers, nudging Peter’s nose with his own. It’s time to go. He knows it, and Wade’s nuzzles don’t help him walk away.

He does, though, his stomach fluttering all the way home. It’s after his dads make sure that he isn’t getting sick again due to his flushed countenance when his heart starts to feel heavy. He’s scared because he’s lying awake, and he can’t stop thinking about it.

 

He blurts it out right as they’re going to Wade’s favorite little diner that serves midnight pancakes. The mercenary pauses for a second, and then smirks through his mask.

“I like you, too?” He hedges, giving him a look that is basically asking him if this was a trick question.

“I…like-like you.”

“You like-like me? Like…Spidey-and-Deadpool-sittin’-in-a-tree-like me? Well, I’m going to let you know upfront I want forty kids. Definitely.”

“Wade, I’m serious.”

“I am, too. Well, maybe forty’s a bit high—twenty would probably be better—you have enough toes and fingers to count them all.” Wade laughs, and Peter feels his headache coming on.

“Wade—really…just—just forget it,” he mutters, getting ready to web himself out of the area. Wade’s hand clamps over his shoulder, and it seems he is going to be serious this time.

“We like this, but you don’t—I’m a mess, you get that right? And I’m not exactly cut from the hero cloth—dating me wouldn’t be worth it. That is to say a few things would be good—like being able to—”

“I don’t care!” Peter reacts quickly, his face flushing dark crimson as he cuts the merc off mid-sentence. “I like you…it’s…it’s that simple.” But it’s really not.

 

A few awkward conversations later, they agree to keep it as casual as two people can. They talk more, and Peter stays out later listening to the merc rattle off about his days before…all of this. The stories are gruesome, and Peter had to stop him mid-way. He can’t bear what Wade had gone through; it hurts too much.

The kiss he stops him with is much too tender, but the Merc with the Mouth doesn’t call him out on it. He returns the kiss, matching his affection, and Peter forgets that it’s supposed to be casual, sitting in his lap like this.

Deadpool grinds up into his ass, hands groping with bruising force. Peter rolls his hips against him, and Wade’s fingers work their way inside the spandex, the gloves sliding over his exposed flesh. His skin feels raw from the touch, but his body is too needy to pull away. His hands fumble looking for the pocket, knowing the man kept it on his person. He doesn’t even have to ask before Wade’s freed his hand, taking it out himself.

Nothing is discussed as Peter shakily removes his pants and Deadpool removes his gloves. He reclaims his position straddling the man, trying not to blush but failing miserably. Peter’s convinced that the man is purring beneath him as he presses a lubed finger into his body.

It doesn’t hurt, not really. It’s just uncomfortable, but the second he isn’t ready for when it moves inside him. Wade’s lips take hold of his, muffling the sharp cry. Peter doesn’t know if this is worth it as he breaks the kiss, his eyebrows knitting together beneath his mask. Then the pressure and burn eases, and the pleasure he’s been missing forks through him like lightning. His hands grab the couch, his hips automatically seeking the sensation again. He presses his forehead into Wade’s shoulder, panting as the third stretches him further before they’re removed completely.

He whines that they’re gone, but it turns to a whimper when it’s Wade thrusting into him. There’s a cracking sound, and Peter’s sure it’s the wooden frame of the sofa splintering beneath his fingers. It hurts, but it feels good, too.

Peter only half-listens to Wade as he babbles about how pliant he is—how _goddamn fucking tight_ he is. He’s trying to meet his thrusts, practically bouncing in his lap. His hands relinquish their hold on the couch, one cupping the back of Wade’s neck as his lips kiss under his jaw. Wade forces their mouths together, and Peter holds tight to him as he comes. He knows Wade’s done, too, judging by the heat inside him.

Peter likes that feeling too much, and he likes the feeling of Wade getting hard and stretching him again.

 

By the time Peter does get home, he can’t explain away what he’s been doing. His alibies were shot last night before he could even think about calling them because he’d been too busy being less-than-casual friends with Wade. He doesn’t bother trying to sneak in, his body still sore even after the shower he had stolen.

“Peter, can we have a word with you?”

It’s Pop’s soft voice that calls to him from the kitchen. He turns slowly, walking that direction. Dad is standing next to Pop while he leans over the island. They’re both deadly calm, and Peter knows he’s in trouble. He feels a pit sink into his stomach. He’s not in the mood for a lecture, to be told that the person he had just spent the better part of eighteen hours with isn’t worth a damn.

“I know what I did wrong, okay? I stayed the night at a friend’s.”

“Peter, you don’t do this. You were always good at letting us know if you were going to be out late, and then your phone was dead. We stayed up all night; we were worried sick. Gwen and Harry didn’t know where to find you, and neither did anyone else.” He can see now that there are dark circles under Pop’s eyes. It’s normal to see Dad’s, but they look more intense.

“Natasha had an interesting theory,” Dad mutters, yawning slightly. “Do you want to know what it was—or are you just going to tell us yourself where you were last night?” He is serious, but Peter frowns, shaking his head, defensive.

“There’s nothing wrong with staying out.”

“If you’re lying to us—”

“I’m not lying to you! I just didn’t come home. I just didn’t call.”

“And your…‘friend’?” Dad pushes, and Peter’s gaze drops, unable to look at either of them. He knows it tells them everything without saying a word.

“It’s…not a big deal,” he mutters, his eyes fixing on a tile, his hands forming fists.

“Peter—”

“Not a big deal? You were out all night with that crazy mercenary and you’re telling us it’s not a big deal?” Dad raises his voice over Pop’s, effectively cutting him off, and Peter’s head snaps up to glare at his dad.

“Tony—”

“That’s not fair! You’d be crazy, too, if you went through what he did!” Peter shouts, preventing his pop from getting a word in edgewise.

“What did he go through, Peter? He was looking for a way to live longer so he could continue being a gun for hire, and he bit off more than he could chew. It’s his own—”

“Enough!” Pop interrupts, seeing the effect Dad’s words were having on him. He crossed from behind the island to pull Peter into a warm, comforting hug, and Peter sobs into his shirt, fisting the material. “Peter, it’s all right. We just want you to be careful around him. He’s got a track record a mile long on how to look out for number one,” Pop consoles him, rubbing his back.

“I love him,” he whispers brokenly. He doesn’t know if they share that worried look they have, but he knows the room is quiet.

 

He finds an excuse to be with Wade too much. He knows he should stop because this isn’t casual, but Peter can feel himself digging the hole deeper.

They hang out on the couch, watching Wanted on a consistent basis—so much so he starts asking Wade if it is possible to actually ‘curve a bullet’. Sometimes it’s more than that, and Peter gets better about calling home.

Today, Peter plasters himself to the ceiling when he comes in through the window, an Alien statue staring him down from the corner of the room near the couch. “W-what the hell?” Peter shrieks, as manly as possible. “When did you get that thing?” He asks with an accusing stare that Wade shrugs off.

“I’ve always had it.”

“Why didn’t I see it before?”

“It’s laundry day?”

 

Aunt Natasha’s words haunt Peter as he paces in his bedroom, waiting for the party to start. He doesn’t know if he’ll show, and he hasn’t told his dads he’s invited the mercenary. He runs his hands through his hair so many times; he knows it’s almost standing on end.

He’s in over his head, and he knows it when he descends the stairs with most of the party already arrived.

“Nice hair,” Gwen giggles, coming over to him. He gives her a look of chagrin, and she attempts to tame the mess. “Don’t be so nervous.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” he whispers, blushing as she even straightens his collar and shirt.

“You know it didn’t have to be such a big deal, asking him to meet you here like this.” Peter bites his lip. As soon as she says it, it seems logical to have done it in private. “And that’s why you’re number two,” she teases him. It helps him laugh it off, or at least, smile.

“Number two? You sure?”

“Oh yeah,” she grins. He lets her lead him into the throng of familiar faces. His dads are among them, Aunt Natasha next to them. The party is easygoing, though, and Peter is in good spirits talking with Uncle Clint about one of his recent missions when JARVIS informs the house of their newest guest.

Peter runs to the door and tries not to be disappointed when he sees Harry on the other side. He wraps his arms around his friend.

“Don’t look so excited, Pete,” Harry quips, a wry smile on his face when they pull apart.

“I thought you weren’t going to be back until the summer,” Peter defends slightly. “It’s really good to see you—really,” he insists, and Harry lets him off the hook.

“Not here yet?” Peter shakes his head. “Well, the party’s still happening, so c’mon.”

They go into the festivities, presents and cake with all the fanfare only his dad knows. It’s when the party is winding down, when the crowd has lessened to the close family, that JARVIS announces someone being at the door. Peter sets down his fork, swallowing the sugary confection with the lump in his throat. He puts the plate down, going to the door for a second time and opens it.

The person behind the door has his back to him, wearing dark wash jeans and a red hoodie. He’s talking, no, arguing angrily with himself. “Why did you even come here? Spidey asked; he wanted me to be here. Did he really want you here? You know who it is—who he is, who owns this house. Yeah, but we get along… Thought this was supposed to be casual. I-it is… You’re not worth it—you don’t fit in here. It’s just—”

“Wade…?” Peter breathes, stepping out over the threshold of door. He’s hesitant, but he rests his hand on his shoulder. The man turns, and Peter sees his face for the first time—the scars that stretched over it, the slightly hollowed cheeks, his sunken, dark eyes.

“Hey baby boy,” he intones, almost sounding defeated as he tries to cover it with a smile. Peter’s heart aches, and he nods.

“You came.”

“’Course I did.” Peter knocks off the cap Wade’s wearing in his haste to push their lips together.

 

His stomach’s in knots. He’s trying to talk him down, but he can’t. This isn’t the first time, and Peter knows it won’t be the last, but it still hurts him all the same when the voices win out over him.

“Wade, stop this—stop listening to them,” he begs.

“No, they’re right—it’s comfortable, it’s easy—”

“You think this is easy?” He shouts at him. “Watching you with that gun—put it down, please!” He can heal; he won’t die. It’s the mantra he repeats during these episodes.

“You feel guilty—”

“No I don’t, Wade. I don’t,” he denies, stepping closer. He’s trying not to cry. He knows if he gets emotional, it won’t fix this. “I love being with you—I love you.”

“You’re sweet and innocent and I’m horrible for you—I’m going to ruin you I’m—” But Peter doesn’t get to know what else Wade would do to him. His lips tremble, tears falling down his cheeks as his body crumples to the floor. Peter approaches him, kneeling and cradling his head in his lap. He kisses his forehead, his fingers shaking as he brushes his fingers over the valleys in his cheeks.

“Why is it so hard to believe I love you?”

 

The Avengers call them both in for this fight. It’s the first time in a long while, but Peter can already feel the adrenaline coursing through him. This would be good. They’re put together again.

“You’re the only one that can handle him,” Pop says, giving Peter a small smile. Peter doesn’t care, though sometimes working with Wade can be difficult.

It’s not today, though. They’re better than good. In a matter of seconds, Deadpool’s lured their target into an alley. Peter worries, but doesn’t intervene beyond shooting his webbing to glue the person to the wall. Internally, he cheers when Deadpool only knocks him out.

The others have their marks, too, the numbers game working in their favor.

“Nice shooting, Ace,” Wade calls to him as he makes his way into the open, pretending to shoot him. Peter’s about to laugh when he sees him wince and grab his arm, and then he feels as though someone just pierced his side. He looks down; his gloved hand reaching for his side where red blossomed over the suit.

Stunned, his knees buckle and give way. “Shit, Spidey—” Peter’s kneeling on the ground, his hand pressing hard against his side. “No, no, baby boy.” He lifts his head and sees Wade in front of him, moving so he’s kneeling, too. It burns now, like the wound is eating a hole in his side.

“Oh—I need to get Stark or Cap over here—”

His other hand grabs Wade’s, squeezing tight.

“N-no, you can take me…” His eyes unfocus, and he leans forward, resting his head on Wade’s shoulder.

“How do I help? We can’t help—we’re not equipped for that—if we could get him to SHIELD—but it’s so far away…” His ramblings trail off, and Peter’s too far gone to really know what’s happening. Shock and blood loss take their hold on his body, the edges of his vision blurring until they are finally black.

He comes to, feeling something scratchy over his torso as well as a blanket, and the sounds of monitors beeping fill his ears. It’s dark in the room, and he’s certain he can see the outlines of both of his parents, Dad’s head resting on Pop’s shoulder. He doesn’t see Wade, and his eyes feel misty. He bites his lower lip, stifling the emotion as much as he can. He doesn’t want to wake them.

 

He stares at himself in the mirror of his room, fingering the fresh gauze—now minimized to a square on his side. Physically, he’s getting better, but as the days drag on without any word from Wade, his mental health isn’t.

The bags under his eyes match his dad’s. He sighs and lets the shirt fall over his thin frame—maybe it’s just the puncture healing that means he’s in good, physical standing. The meals he’s skipped are beginning to show—not much, but just enough.

The sound of his window opening sends his heart slamming against his ribcage, and he spins on the spot. He’s prepared to flee if he has to, but it’s not necessary.

“You—”

“I know—I know, just…for a second.” Peter concedes begrudgingly, his jaw set against him yelling at the merc for being MIA for two weeks. “You—you amaze me. I knew you’d live—that wasn’t in question, but protecting you from that isn’t going to happen because you protect people that can’t protect themselves. Every day…” Peter stares at him, as Wade bows his head, whispering to the voices that constantly picked at him. After a moment, the cap comes off of his head, and their eyes meet.

“Every day you go out there, you could… Look, I’m not a hero and I don’t—I want to be there with you. I want to always be there with you so I can try to keep you alive. What if I hadn’t been there? You’d have bled out. Hell, I’ll be your meat shield. Nothing that happens to me is permanent—you know. You’ve seen. Peter…”

“You’re getting really close to a marriage proposal,” the teen murmurs, watching Wade’s gaze drop to the floor for a moment before looking back at him.

“And if I am?” Peter’s eyes widen a little, taken aback by the question. It takes a moment of him gaping at Wade before he finally answers simultaneously with Wade’s uncertain words,

“Yes.”

“I’ll go ahead and go if you want. It was stupid I—did he just say ‘yes’? Yes…yes he did. Huh. Big guy has game after all—it’s really not game though—”

“Hello? I’m still here,” he reminds him over the lump in his throat, a barely contained smile gracing his features. Wade’s arms find their way around his middle, pulling him in closer. Their foreheads press together.

“Yeah… You are.” He sounds almost surprised by that, but Peter leans up onto his toes to press their lips together.

_Take my hand…take my whole…life…too. ‘Cause I can’t help…falling in love…with…you._


End file.
